


brood

by YukinaMika



Series: 2020 [23]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Breeding, M/M, Objectification, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Trans Tim Drake, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukinaMika/pseuds/YukinaMika
Summary: Resigned to the fate he was born into, ripe for the picking, he waits for the other shoe to fall.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Series: 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593016
Comments: 6
Kudos: 168





	brood

The first time they strip him, he fights against their strength, clawing at anyone who came too close. Even as they have him tied down, unable to move, he squirms still, struggles against the restraints like his life depends on it.

The next three times are the same. They can do nothing more than strap him down, none too eager to approach him after that time where he bit one crowding too much into his personal space.

“Your struggle has no use here,” the Courtmaster tells him as he is bent over the bench that he has soon become acquainted with for the fifth time, “You cannot hope to escape.”

“You can’t hold me here forever,” he spits, testing the restraints furiously, “Sooner or later, someone will realize that I’m missing and then it will be the end for you.”

“Your parents sold you to the Court of Owls,” the next words are cold as the Courtmaster trails an eye down his bare skin, “And thus, shall you spend the rest of your life, your body dedicated for our cause.”

An invisible stone logs itself in his throat. A shiver runs down his back at the thought of giving his life to this twisted cult, trapped forever, unable to see the sky again.

"You are a wonderful specimen, dear boy. I am sure that the children that you bear shall bring the Court of Owls to prominence."

The meaning of those words only dawns on him when the man behind the Courtmaster moves at a flick of his hand, pinning him down with careless strength, something strange and cold pushing against his back side. The cry that is ripped out from his throat as it drives inside him would only haunt him for years to come.

Time is such a frivolous concept when all he knows is of the various degrading tortures they unleash on his body. They toy with him like he is just an object, strapped down for their use, his pleads unheard as they continue to fill him with disgusting cold seeds until he is bursting with it and plugging him up with anything vaguely phallic shaped when he is unable to take anymore come into his abused cunt.

Despite the Courtmaster's words, pills are forced down his throat after every session, his air cut off until he obediently swallows them down. It is almost as if they are being careful, keeping him from getting pregnant like the Courtmaster's wish.

"There are still preparations to be done, my boy," the Courmaster croons when he finally gathers enough courage to spit out the question, "Your time will come, eventually."

And come, it does.

He has no idea how long has it been since they wrestled him into this position: bent over what he dimly realized as a breeding bench with his limbs held down by leather straps in the middle of the raised platform. Not a piece of cloth on his back, he is restrained and put up like a simple piece of decoration.

“This is what you were born for,” he remembers his mother’s frigid eyes, barely a sliver of warmth in them as she pushed him toward the unknown men, “Cease your senseless complaints, Timothy.”

“I know you’ve always been a good boy,” his father’s hand on the top of his head, “Do us proud, will you?”

In a twisted way, he is doing his parents proud. Resigned to the fate he was born into, ripe for the picking, he waits for the other shoe to fall.

His body is buzzing with the aphrodisiacs they pumped him full before marching him toward the stage, heedless of his pleads for mercy. His skin is flushed from the unwanted heat and the humiliation from being in such a vulnerable position under hundreds of eyes.

He has long given up on crying out for attention, trying to get some friction on his soaked cunt to relieve the burning in his nether regions. His shame has long dripped down his thighs, leaving a puddle on the pristine floor underneath him, one that he might be forced to clean up after this, once again brought down and debased for the pleasure of his masters.

Yet never before has drug been involved, his so-called trainers prefer him to be of lucid mind, conscious of things happening to him. They want him to be aware as they strip him of his dignity, witnessing his shame, reveling in his cries and pleads.

They leer as he is driven to the edge of insanity, hips rolling, eyes glazing over with desperation as he works toward his own release, clit ignored and throbbing. And in the rare times he comes untouched, they would mock him, calling him by various degrading terms.

They leave him broken and humiliated, debased but always alert enough to gloat and relish in his hurt and pain.

The hand on his back rips him from his thoughts, icy on his overheated skin, leaving him gasping in need, squirming against the unyielding restraints, pushing back into the hand just for a moment of respite. He melts into a puddle of goo at the calming cold of the touch, steady like a very much needed rock when everything is too much, too overwhelming for his feverish mind.

"There, there, what a good boy," the familiar voice of the Courtmaster washes over him, following by an amused chuckle as he sinks into the unwanted bliss of the touch, "Have you waited long, my dear?"

 _Yes,_ he wants to cry out but words evade him. Too lost in his need, he can only groan, his head bobbing up and down in resemblance of nods to the rumbling laughter from the audience.

Heat curls in his stomach, hot and heavy, almost uncomfortable to bear. His body is sensitive and sweaty from the hours long ignorance when there was nothing against his skin but the piercing stares.

"My friends," the Courtmaster's voice is booming as he addresses the room, the hand on his back trailing toward his backside, resting heavily on his ass, "Welcome to the unveiling of our newest tool, one that I know most of you is dearly acquainted with."

He burns under the gazes and the whispers, whimpering softly as tears of shame well up in his eyes. Naked and restrained, he is an object in their eyes: a means to an end; a vessel to bear the children that they would one day mold into perfect weapons.

"The Court has been training it relentlessly, breaking it into the perfect servant that it is today: obedient and eager to fulfil its duty," he sobs at the sting on his ass, bucking in his restraints as the hand slides down and rests against his weeping heat, "And today, we gather to witness its graduation into a devoted tool for the Court's use."

A high pitched whine is torn from his throat as fingers plunge into his leaking cunt, scraping against his heated walls as they thrust in and out. His clit throbs with desire while the attention is lavished on his hole, riling his sensitive nerves up until he is drooling from sheer bliss.

"Be thankful, my boy," the Courtmaster sounds somewhere above him, "I have picked the most promising sire for your children and you shall carry the future of our finest blade: a successor to the mantle of the Gray Son."

The fingers retreat, leaving him so uncomfortably empty and he pushes back into thin air, chasing the loss. Shame is the last thing on his mind as he whines for something, anything to fill the emptiness inside him.

"Come."

With only a word, a clawed hand lands on his shoulders, pressing down as a much bigger body drapes over his, dwarfing him almost completely. Something presses against his opening and he cries out, choking on his spit when it pushes in, filling him up in one thrust.

The fire in his veins calms just for a moment before it roars up when powerful hips slams into his backside. His skin burns with shame when he accidentally stares straight at one of the Court members, suddenly remembering that he is on display: a thing put up merely for their pleasure, a tool for their own agenda. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Tight," he shivers at the gutter voice, hot breath caressing the sensitive shell of his ear, "You are eager for this, aren't you?"

It takes him some time but the sudden realization that the body above him is talking to him is jarring enough that his hazy mind clears, a panic gasp falling out of his mouth as he accidentally pushes back into the thrusting cock, driving it directly into a sensitive spot.

Talons are never hot. They also never talk. Not even a sound comes out of them when they fill his body with their own disgustingly cold seeds.

This man above him, he is not a Talon. He is warm, almost too hot for his overheated skin. He talks and grunts, chuckling into his ear as he wrings pitiful sounds from his throat.

"Sharp, aren't you?" he shudders as a hand warps around his throat, claws digging warningly into the tender side of his neck, "I'm not a regular Talon, little one."

There are a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue yet he dares not move with such sharp claws against the skin of his neck. He bites back the urge to indulge in his own curiosity but not the wounded whimper, trembling in the grip around his neck as the man on top of him chuckles.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head," whispers the man, stroking his throat with that clawed hand, keeping enough pressure that he feels the tip of those pointed claws but never breaking the tender skin, "You will understand it soon enough."

Confusion courses through his mind even as the cock inside him drives repetitively into that sensitive spot, making his eyes roll back in pleasure. He moans and whines as his cunt flutters and clenches like it was taught, walls gripping tightly around that delicious cock until a sudden warmth blooms inside, scalding against his sensitive walls.

"Good boy," the praise warms against his ear, leaving him gasping and clamming down on the pulsing cock, "Keep it in, will you?"

He lies boneless, still strapped onto the bench, well-fucked cunt clenching as soon as the softened cock slips out, sobbing when the load does not stay in but leaks out through his swollen nether lips in tiny rivulets, painting his crotch white with cum. His clit throbs still, his release denied like times and times before.

He does not lift his head when a knife cuts through the restraints, his tired body hoisted into strong arms, cum running down his hips. He does not budge when violence erupts around him, the sounds of guns firing and people screaming fill his ears.

Instead, he stares into the beautiful and familiar face of the so-called Gray Son, choking out a confused whimper as the man drives a knife into the Courtmaster's chest.

"Don't worry, Timmy," Dick Grayson grins at him, blue eyes dark as he carelessly wipes the bloody blade on a hip, "I'm keeping you."

**Author's Note:**

> The ending surprised me. Oops, I guess.
> 
> Also, I realized that Tim's name is only mentioned like twice. Second oops, then.


End file.
